Image by Professor Bop via Flickr
The room has a UV light that intensifies as it reflects off white clothing: woe unto you if you’re wearing white underwear. It looks like the interior of a Kenyan PSV and has the sound system to boot. It is, however, much more comfortable. My Hip Hop Boi is however, as silent as the grave of King Tut. He has an aura; it betrays his anxiety and his heart’s desire: he wants to possess me.
He cannot have me. I am not a plaything. I am who I am and I will do as I wish. I will not be a man’s consort nor his partner. I ride the wave of life by myself and I am responsible to no one but myself for my own actions.
He is crushed but he dared to touch the flame of independence within me and got burned. I will not be sorry for safeguarding that which is dear to my heart and furthermore, vital to the moulding and achievement my destiny.
My Ghetto HipHopper is no longer mine, repudiated by a force greater than his dream; his prey lives to fight another day.
He cannot have me. I am not a plaything. I am who I am and I will do as I wish. I will not be a man’s consort nor his partner. I ride the wave of life by myself and I am responsible to no one but myself for my own actions.
He is crushed but he dared to touch the flame of independence within me and got burned. I will not be sorry for safeguarding that which is dear to my heart and furthermore, vital to the moulding and achievement my destiny.
My Ghetto HipHopper is no longer mine, repudiated by a force greater than his dream; his prey lives to fight another day.
